


climb on board

by calciseptine



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6575947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the armchair in the living room is old and faded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	climb on board

**Author's Note:**

> i posted this to my tumblr awhile ago and forgot to post it here! my bad guys. 
> 
> this is dedicated to busmall, who originally came up with stan being ridden in his favorite armchair.

the armchair in the living room is old and faded. the mustard yellow cushions sag and there are stains so deeply ingrained into the fabric that they are as intrinsic as the fibers. time has beaten the original nubby texture of the upholstery into something soft and buttery, and because of this, ford cannot get a proper grip on the backboard.

“goddamn,” stan pants against ford’s skin. “just—just like that.”

stan’s gravelly voice rumbles into ford’s ribcage and shakes ford to his core. if it were not for the bruising anchor of stan’s hands on ford’s hips—for the hook of his thumbs in the hollows of ford’s pelvis—ford knows that he would float away.

“fuck,” ford hisses as he rises. his thighs tremble violently. “stan—fuck— _stanley_ —”

stan pulls ford back down, and it is so rough and sudden ford chokes. stan is so big inside ford, so damnably present, that ford cannot focus on anything else but the burning ecstasy of being stretched and filled. a pathetic and needful noise climbs out of ford’s mouth and into the humid summer air.

low and pleased, stan laughs.

“fuck you,” ford spits even as he lifts his body again.

“already doin’ it, sweetheart.”

ford tries to snarl at his brother’s saccharine sarcasm, but stan pulls him down and the wordless cry gets stuck in ford’s dry throat. stan’s bulk brushes against the bundle of nerves hidden within ford’s body. the sensation is neither pain nor pleasure; it simply overwhelms, and ford instinctively arches into it.

“there,” ford gasps as his hips twitch mindlessly in stan’s grip. “ _there._ ”

riding stan while stan sits in his armchair is no easy task. ford’s knees are wedged on either side of stan’s broad body and his calves are trapped between the armrest and stan’s hairy thighs. ford’s hands cannot settle, alighting for a moment upon stan’s shoulders, or wrists, or forearms; then something upsets ford’s balance, and his fingers fly to a different, more stable perch, like the backboard or the armrest. his abdominal muscles burn with the exertion of continuously lifting his lower body and he cannot seem to catch his breath. yet despite these detriments, ford is unwilling—unable—to stop himself from rising once more.

“god,” stan murmurs as ford crests, his dark eyes scraping down the line of ford’s taut, muscular stomach. his stare is as physical as any touch. “look at you.”

a bead of perspiration slides from ford’s hairline to the clenched hinge of his jaw. it is as sweltering hot inside the cabin as it is outside; the only benefits of being inside are a lack of direct sunlight and the floor fan, but the meager and artificial breeze does little against ford’s overheated skin.

“yeah,” snaps ford over the rattle and click of the rotating fan. “look at me. doing all the work. as usual.”

“i thought you liked bein’ in charge,” stan replies. his nonchalant words are at war his self-satisfied grin and half-lidded gaze. “you’re pretty bossy.”

“i am not—”

stan’s finger tighten and he pulls ford’s trembling body closer and closer. he stops only when ford is fully seated in his lap, when he has nothing left to give. another wretched whimper escapes ford.

“see?” says stan. “bossy.”

ford does not take the bait. instead, he threads his fingers through stan’s thick, sweat-damp hair; lifts himself just high enough so only stan’s blunt cockhead remains within the clutch of his body; and lets go, allowing for the inevitability of gravity. stan inhales as sharply as though he were wounded.

“goddamn,” stan exclaims breathlessly when ford rises—and falls—and rises—and falls, an unsustainable pace that fights ford’s stubborn determination. ford’s fingers tighten in the mass of stan’s hair with every shuddering cycle, until stan’s head is pulled back and his stubbled throat is exposed. “sixer—i’m gettin'—i’m gonna—”

stan bucks up as ford drops down and, in a strange moment of synchronicity, they come. all the unbearable tension in ford’s body is suddenly gone; he sways, weightless, and nearly falls off stan’s lap. stan catches him before that can happen, though, and pulls ford to him. his solid body grounds ford.

“i gotcha, sixer,” stan murmurs as he buries his face in ford’s chest; ford’s cheek rests comfortably against the crown of stan’s skull. “i gotcha.”

and with those words, ford leans fully into his brother’s embrace, and blinks the last of the stars from his eyes.


End file.
